As part of my birthday celebrations I have called all my friends to a club. Having a not so great salary, I also decided it would be a buy-your-own-booze thing—which also made it a completely optional thing. So, if the person I called did not want to come and spend their own money, then they didn’t have to because I had my set of good friends who were definitely going to make it a success.
Now, to be very honest I don’t have a whole lot of very good friends. And the handful of them who I really wanted to be there were all I really needed. Except I got a mail from one of the girls saying she was not willing to come because Thursday “wasn’t good” for her. Obviously I was very upset and tried calling her several times to get some clarity on the situation.
She finally called back and said that she couldn’t make it because she was broke, and she didn’t have a present for me— I’ve known her for almost 10 years and that was the excuse she was throwing at me. I choked up; I sputtered an “Ok, fine, if that’s what you think I want you there for.” And I was about to put the phone down when she began to laugh and say she was kidding.
Then she said I was crazy. She said I was overly obsessed and asked if I thought she really wouldn’t come. She said I sounded like a crazy paranoid chick, who was worried about people not coming to her ‘party’ when she was not even paying for people. She said I should stop calling it MY party, because it’s really a bunch of people going out drinking, it just happens to be on my birthday. She said I was stupid to think she wouldn’t come. That she thought I would take as a joke and it was a joke, but it wasn’t my party and I should get that clear in my head, before getting upset about people backing out.
I said I would only be upset if she backed out.
And I cried some more.
I'm not crazy.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Monday, July 28, 2008
twenty-frikkin-seven
I was telling a friend of mine how incredibly depressed I was to be turning 27 this Thursday. What I didn’t realise was that I was also talking to him five years ago, a couple of days before I turned 23—and I was ‘incredibly depressed’ then too.
Don’t get me wrong, I love birthdays. And I love my birthday even more. I want gifts, I want hugs and I want all the people who love me to be around me and celebrate the day I was born.
So that got me thinking: Is it ageing that I am depressed about? Is it the depression that comes before being insanely happy as the centre of attention at my own party? Is it depression for the sake of depression—maybe just another reason to feel inconsolably low, and wallow in my own little private pool of self pity?
Honestly, I have no idea (I said it got me thinking, I never said I came to any concrete conclusion).
This year’s pre-birthday depression phase has been more acute. I think it’s the combination of slowly crossing the youthful hill of the twenties and heading towards the weary mountain of the thirty’s (ok I realise this hill metaphor is no fun at all for you, but I’m trying to make my life a little more interesting to read about, so sue me.)
When I was nine, I’m sure I didn’t think of my life as it is when I reached this ripe old age. My nine year old self probably imagined me with a car, maybe an apartment. I probably believed I’d be someone’s boss, doing what I loved and being fabulous everyday. I probably dreamed I’d be all professional—wearing heels, business suits and doing my hair. Heck, I probably thought I’d even have a wedding by now.
The big 2-7 is upon us and in two years—BAM—I will be thirty. Needless to say, I haven’t achieved any of the above, not even close.
I’m a twenty-seven year old, who travels by public transport, lives with her parents, has an odious senior, lives in jeans and t-shirts, hasn’t seen the inside of a parlous in months and yup, no sign of a wedding happening any time soon.
Shame on me.
And apologies to my nine-year-old self.
Don’t get me wrong, I love birthdays. And I love my birthday even more. I want gifts, I want hugs and I want all the people who love me to be around me and celebrate the day I was born.
So that got me thinking: Is it ageing that I am depressed about? Is it the depression that comes before being insanely happy as the centre of attention at my own party? Is it depression for the sake of depression—maybe just another reason to feel inconsolably low, and wallow in my own little private pool of self pity?
Honestly, I have no idea (I said it got me thinking, I never said I came to any concrete conclusion).
This year’s pre-birthday depression phase has been more acute. I think it’s the combination of slowly crossing the youthful hill of the twenties and heading towards the weary mountain of the thirty’s (ok I realise this hill metaphor is no fun at all for you, but I’m trying to make my life a little more interesting to read about, so sue me.)
When I was nine, I’m sure I didn’t think of my life as it is when I reached this ripe old age. My nine year old self probably imagined me with a car, maybe an apartment. I probably believed I’d be someone’s boss, doing what I loved and being fabulous everyday. I probably dreamed I’d be all professional—wearing heels, business suits and doing my hair. Heck, I probably thought I’d even have a wedding by now.
The big 2-7 is upon us and in two years—BAM—I will be thirty. Needless to say, I haven’t achieved any of the above, not even close.
I’m a twenty-seven year old, who travels by public transport, lives with her parents, has an odious senior, lives in jeans and t-shirts, hasn’t seen the inside of a parlous in months and yup, no sign of a wedding happening any time soon.
Shame on me.
And apologies to my nine-year-old self.
Friday, July 25, 2008
true story
“Do you want to be sad?” he asked, looking at her more intently than usual.
“Please! Why would I want to be sad?” she said, avoiding his eyes.
“Because it’s easier”
“Please! Why would I want to be sad?” she said, avoiding his eyes.
“Because it’s easier”
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